Three's a Spell

Harmonized Appetites

That evening, the wind had a bite on it as Elora approached the vampire mansion. She had decided on the dress she had thought about earlier in the day. Over the top she wore a long, long green coat that smelled faintly of lavender and thyme. She had chosen to bundle up half of her hair into a messy updo, hoping it would make her look casually elegant instead of like she was trying too hard.

Sylas opened the door before she knocked, naturally. He was in black slacks and a loose cream shirt that made him look like the romantic lead in a ghost story. “You’re early, Miss Elora” he said, pleased.

“I brought blackberry mead,” Elora said, holding up the bottle. “I made it myself last Spring.”

Sylas bounced with delight, taking the bottle from her as he led her in through the entryway. “This will go perfectly with dinner,” he announced as they reached the dining room.

Vernon appeared a moment later in his signature black button-up, sleeves rolled, and a red tie neatly pulling together his collar. He was already lighting candles at the round table. At the center of the dark, polished mahogany, a single obsidian vase held a dramatic cascade of deep crimson roses and shadowy, almost black, hellebores, their petals catching the faint, flickering light from a candelabrum of cast iron. A barely-there lace veil, the color of drying blood, waterfalled into a pool on the floor. “These delicious treats might be your second most redeeming quality.”

Elora narrowed her eyes at his teasing. “And what then is the first?”

“You fixed my hand.”

“Mm. You’re warming up to me, Vernon. Admit it.”

“I’m not admitting anything until dessert,” he said. “Besides, you’re the one that turned it purple in the first place,” he reminded himself before he could let out another pleasantry.

Sylas laughed and gestured for her to take off her jacket. As she handed it to him, he closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. “You’ve just released the most pleasant aroma. So herbal!”

“Thyme? How sweet of you to season our meal for us,” Vernon smirked with an eyebrow raised in Elora’s direction as he too took a slow breath in.

“Oh stop scaring away all my new friends,” Sylas interjected before Elora’s eyes could get too big.

“Tonight’s menu is mushroom tart, roasted root vegetables, and a beautifully seasoned brisket that I have been smoking for the last 10 hours,” he added.

“You really do cook?” Elora found herself pleasantly shocked.

“We’ve had hundreds of years to practice,” Vernon said, winking.

“There is also something so romantic about the idea of cooking for someone. Even when we don’t eat the food ourselves.”

“I didn’t even think about that when you invited me for dinner!” Elora immediately felt somehow guilty for wasting so much of their time and food for a meal they wouldn’t even enjoy.

Sylas could tell what she was thinking. “It is a common misconception, actually. We can eat just about anything- it just takes at least a few drops of blood mixed in for us to be able to swallow it down.

“You should have seen when he first found out he could eat again,” Vernon reminisced. “He was in the kitchen for weeks trying, and failing, at cooking with blood. I never want to tas-”

“Once donor agencies were formed and became more available, it was easier to figure it all out,” Sylas interrupted, snapping his eyes to Vernon. He gestured for Elora to sit as he looked back her way, “You see, it turned out each blood type had a very distinct flavor profile. Once I could predict the blood type with a donor, I could find the foods they paired with well.”

“He also had to learn to add the blood after any heat was involved,” Vernon added. “Nothing turns my stomach more than dull, congealed mockery, tasting faintly of boiled pennies and regret.”

“Vernon much prefers a good chocolate milkshake with the salted flavors of O negative,” Sylas stated as he walked to the bar cabinets for some glasses.

Vernon sat at one of the remaining two vacant seats at the table. “After a few decades, cooking for just the two of us became so repetitive.” He rolled his eyes. “Why cook when you can have any blood type you are craving just drive right to your home?”

Sylas poured wine into three glasses after placing them neatly on the table. “Cooking is… is more ritual than nourishment by this point, but we enjoy the act of it when given a good enough reason.”

Sylas sat down to join them at the candlelit table. Elora was between them, with Sylas on her right, Vernon on her left. She realized, with a flush of warmth, that she felt strangely safe here. She loved listening to their effortless ebb and flow, a dance of thoughts and feelings where they each knew their partner's next step. Any time she listened to them, she could tell that they truly understood the intent behind every half-formed idea, each offering the precise sentiment the other was reaching for.

Elora found herself longing for that type of belonging. Whether it was Vernon’s hand subtly guiding Syla’s theatrical gesture, or Sylas' lean into Vernon’s quiet amusement, their physical presence often mirrors and complements each other without conscious effort. Their time together has made them perfectly harmonized.